


My Lover's Lover

by tanukiham



Series: Let Me Get That For You [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Polyamory, closing the triangle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: "If we are not lovers by now, Knight-Commander, then I do not know what we are."Fenris is not afraid of Cullen. What he feels is something else, and with Carver away he has an unforeseen opportunity to explore it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/gifts).



> For Wargoddess, who wanted to see them kiss.

It is not that Cullen frightens Fenris. Fenris is wary of him, but he has survived more dangerous households than this. There is nothing to stop him, for example, from walking out to the barge and taking passage into the city proper. He tests this, shopping for soap and other luxuries. He can even walk out the main gates of Kirkwall -- he tests this as well, venturing down to the Wounded Coast one blustery afternoon. No-one tries to stop him, no-one seems to notice.

When he tells Carver where he has been, however, Carver throws down his spoon with a clatter. "There's fucking _slavers_ on the Wounded Coast!" 

"And if I had met them I would gladly have killed them," Fenris says, examining his soup. It contains mushrooms and turnips and millet but is free of the disgusting bounty of the seas.

"Oh yeah? What if they had _mages_?"

"What if one of your tame mages became an abomination? What if a tsunami tore the Gallows from her foundations? What if Danarius--"

"Danarius is dead," Carver shoots back, looking grim.

"What if he were not, while we are playing at 'what ifs' and 'maybes'?"

"What if Tevinter slavers got the jump on you and I had to go all the way to fucking Minrathous to get you back?"

Fenris considers how upset Carver is, and realises how worried he must be. He does not know how to be conciliatory, but he tries. "Vyrantium. There is a market there. I would try Vyrantium first."

Carver huffs out a sigh. "Good to know."

He picks up his spoon but does not return to his food, simply frowns at it.

And then, when they have clearly both forgotten about him, the Knight-Commander clears his throat. "If it is necessary, please feel free to send a patrol with Serrah Fenris, should he have business outside the city again."

Fenris inclines his head, but resolves never to accept this 'gift'. He does not need minders.

And he is not afraid of Cullen. Cullen is simply a large and dangerous man at the heart of his domain, who holds the loyalty of Fenris' lover in the palm of his hand. He is human, and he is dangerous. He is a Templar, in a city where this has meaning, the greatest of Templars there. His actions or inactions have threatened the stability of the Chantry, of the Circle, of all of Andrastian Thedas. Even in Tevinter the effects of this Mage-Templar War that is brewing must be felt. Perhaps, in the aftermath, Tevinter will become once more ascendant. This is the power that Cullen has.

And this is the power Fenris has over him: Carver has promised that, should Fenris wish it, they will leave. Together. Carver will abandon Cullen, if Fenris should ask. 

And this is the power Cullen has over Fenris: as long as Carver wishes to stay, Fenris will never ask.

It is necessarily complicated to share one's lover with a man like Cullen. It would have been easier with a man like Hawke, or a man like Anders -- hah! The thought of it. (Imagine the Abomination, caught fast in the spell of Carver's heartfelt admiration.) It would be easiest with Isabela, of course, as easy as breathing, and the only risk would be Carver falling in love with her, which she is at least well-practiced in deflecting.

But Cullen is a man in love, a man not used to having access to the object of his desire, and a man who has never shared anything in his adult life because he has never had anything of his own to cosset. Templars keep most things in common. Cullen's rooms are full of books and vases and trinkets, with a lute in a stand against a wall, but when Fenris asks if he may play it Cullen gives his permission without a thought. It isn't his. It came with the room, like the books and the vases. Even his arms and armour come out of the Gallows storerooms. Made for him, certainly, but they are not his. If he left the Order he would leave them behind too. So he says, on a day when Fenris asks.

So Fenris is not afraid of Cullen, but he is wary of him. Cullen can have him beaten and tortured and thrown in a cell to rot, at the cost (Fenris hopes) of Carver's love for him. And Cullen is very much in love with Carver.

As is Fenris. And here they are.

Cullen is also a vital, prowling warrior. He moves through his domain with determination. This is _his_ Gallows, these are _his_ knights, and he is righteous in his mission to force order on the mages in his care. Fenris cannot deny he finds this attractive.

He finds Cullen attractive. He finds Cullen's obsession with Carver amusing. He finds Carver's hero worship a little disturbing because Cullen is also very close to madness. He is a Templar, lyrium-crazed and dangerous, and he is a fanatic, and he was Meredith's right hand for a reason, no matter how he turned on her in the end. Perhaps that is another string to the bow of his madness. He did not turn on her because he did not share her ideals, after all, but simply because he found her unfit. How that must tear at him.

Cullen is a steel trap and Fenris wants very badly to put his hand in it if only to prove he is not afraid.

Some of it must be obvious, because Carver keeps an eye on Fenris, scowling suspiciously every time he's civil to the Knight-Commander. Fenris tolerates this because it is harmless, and because it is amusing.

And then a report comes in of mages on Sundermount, and Carver insists on seeing to it.

"It'll be a day or two in this weather, so we'll overnight it. There's the old Dalish camp on the mountain," Carver says, and Fenris remembers that Carver did not come with them the day they fought the Dalish. Maybe he doesn't know it was Merrill and his brother responsible for that mess. Maybe he knows but does not care.

"Take a full squad," Cullen says and then, frowning, "perhaps some mages."

Carver grins. "I was gunna ask for Keili and Selwyn."

"You may have them, if First Enchanter Edith has no objections."

And that is that. Carver will be gone for a full day, if not more, and Fenris and Cullen will be alone in these rooms, with no brash, handsome, willing barrier between them.

When he goes, Carver kisses the Knight-Commander goodbye first. This is in the Knight-Commander's chambers, of course, as Cullen is still pretending everyone downstairs does not already know what happens behind his closed doors. It's sweet, still a little tentative, as if Carver is never quite sure of his welcome there and Cullen is not yet sure how to show it. When Carver comes to Fenris, however, it is a thorough goodbye.

"Be well," Fenris murmurs. "Do not forget us."

"As if I could. Take care of him for me." And he gives Fenris this _look_ , one part warning and one part challenge, and Fenris thinks, _Oh._

A new game. Interesting.

Cullen follows Carver down the steps to see him off officially at the gate, but Fenris returns to the Knight-Commander's chambers and requests a bath, already pondering.

At dinner Cullen is dutifully polite. He asks after Fenris' day, and once more whether or not Fenris requires diversion. Fenris says him nay, again.

Cullen is quiet a moment, and then he says, "If you are in need of a sparring partner, I would not mind providing one."

It sounds as if he means to order one of his knights to do it, and Fenris means to shake his head, but he takes in Cullen's awkward mien and thinks, _Oh._ "Perhaps. But I do not enjoy rising early, and the yard is often occupied."

Cullen seems surprised, but he leans forward a little. "In the evening, then, if you like. At any time, should you wish it."

Fenris knows Cullen's evenings are overfull with the duties of his office, because Cullen has difficulty letting go of responsibilities he still sees as his. But he knows also that this is a peace offering, as is their meal, now conspicuously free of fish or seaweed. Fenris does not remember when that changed, but it has. Cullen has ordered this, it seems obvious. And now he is trying, however clumsily, to ... what? Befriend his lover's lover?

 _Take care of him,_ Carver said. Fenris wonders if he said the same to Cullen.

"Thank-you, Knight-Commander. I may take advantage of you."

Cullen is a man who blushes easily, made awkward by things he perceives as innuendo though he pretends to ignore all of it. He is pink now, and Fenris cannot help the curl of his mouth. Cullen _is_ awkward. Fenris is himself awkward, often enough, to feel some pity for him even in his amusement.

"And in return," Fenris says, watching Cullen's face for signs, "please feel welcome to take advantage of _me_."

His blush is delightful, as is the way he fumbles his spoon, and the unnecessary clearing of his throat before he speaks. "Thank-you, serrah." But then-- "In that case, I ... would impose on you. If I may."

"Have I not just now invited it?" Still, Fenris wonders. "How would you have me indulge you, Commander?"

Cullen cannot seem to look at him, but then, with obvious effort, he does so. His eyes are intent. He is not a coward, after all. (His eyes are honey-brown, though undershadowed with long-held weariness and the ravages of lyrium addiction. He is very handsome. Fenris wishes he were less so, sometimes. It makes it difficult to resent him for capturing Carver's admiration.)

"There are things I wish to know. They are ... indelicate."

What a wealth of 'things' it could be! Fenris marvels at Cullen's consummate ability to say everything except what he means, though he is plain enough with his knights when necessary. Always, though, he couches it in layers of politeness and propriety. Such an upstanding Knight of the Order. Such a credit to the Chantry. And such a hypocrite, at times.

"Ask." Fenris reaches for the wine; he may need it. "Things between us have become already indelicate, after all."

Cullen folds his hands, frowning. Fenris waits, though he feels impatience press upon him.

"You have always taken the lead," Cullen says quietly, not meeting Fenris' eye. "In bed." He takes a deep breath and looks up with those warm honey-brown eyes wrenched now in uncertainty. "There are things you have bid me to do, and I am grateful, but I have wondered. Certain things are kept between the two of you. I do not wish to impose myself where I am unwanted but ... are these things you do not wish of me? Or do you believe I would be unwilling?"

It is unexpected. Fenris breathes in, sips his wine, and thinks before speaking. "To answer that I would need to know to what you refer."

"Certain acts. Such as ... last night."

Last night Cullen had come in late, and Carver had already begun his goodbyes. When Cullen opened the door Fenris had been on his knees at Carver's feet, mouth upon him, and Carver had lain back across the bed, groaning with a handful of Fenris' hair clutched in his fist. "Sir," he had moaned, and Cullen had stood in the doorway, watching for longer than usual. He had not come up to them, had instead taken a seat on the chair in the corner, even when Fenris had climbed up upon Carver and slid down on him, when Carver had cursed Fenris' slowness and rolled him onto his back, when Carver had lifted Fenris' hips and thrust down in him. Cullen had stayed in his corner, a hand fisted on each knee, and watched with the colour high in his cheeks. And when they were done he had simply brought them a wet cloth, climbed into the bed ( _his_ bed, after all) and curled around Carver's body to kiss his neck, though he had glanced over Carver's shoulder, eyes fixed on Fenris as he did so.

So. Fenris takes up his cup again, thinking. "Do you mean the things themselves, or the fact that they were done to _me_?"

"I mean ... I suppose I mean both." He does not look away this time, simply grimaces. "I would understand if you did not want those things of me. I am not your lover."

But it is not so, and Fenris cannot allow him to think it. "If we are not lovers by now, Knight-Commander, then I do not know what we are."

Cullen jerks, eyes gone wide. Fenris' heart beats heavy beneath his ribs. Those are the eyes of a man who _wants_ , and Fenris cannot deny that he wants in return.

But. "You said 'both'. The other half of it, then, is ..." It takes some thought. Again Cullen has been obtuse and Fenris finds he does not mind puzzling through it. "Was it that I put my mouth on Carver? Or that I took him to my thighs?"

The flutter of Cullen's lashes is telling, and Fenris anticipates it this time when he says, "Both, serrah."

Ah. He has wanted. And he has been waiting for _Fenris_ to put him to it. "If you wish to have your mouth on him then he will only welcome it. Carver enjoys the act from either side, though he is ... thirsty for one side, where he is grateful for the other."

"I would not know where to begin," Cullen says, so quiet, such a shy admission, and Fenris thinks, _Oh._ He seeks instruction. He seeks instruction of _Fenris_ , and _this_ is a gift that cannot be refused.

"Shall I teach you? Now that Carver is not here to see it, should you find it not to your taste."

The shudder takes Cullen over from shoulders to hips, and it is delicious. "Only if it is to _yours_."

Fenris stands up. It is gratifying how Cullen tracks him as he moves, as he clears the end of the table and pushes himself up onto it. Cullen leans back in his chair, watching Fenris settle himself on the edge facing him, practically in his lap.

"Do you think it would be an imposition? For me to touch you, or be touched by you?" Fenris leans forward, balancing his weight on one palm pressed to the table between his thighs. This leaves one hand free to flutter against Cullen's cheek. There is stubble there, stiff and wiry like his hair. He tries so hard to keep his skin smooth and clean and every night he comes to them rough around the edges. Fenris wonders how it would feel against the skin of his thighs, and shudders. "I am not immune to your attractions, Knight-Commander. You are well made, well spoken. Handsome. Righteous. And I have seen you look at me. I know you would not press if it were unwanted."

Cullen swallows, and he is trembling. "Forgive me, but I do not see how you can be sure of that. Though I give you my word that it is true."

"I believe it. And, in any case." Fenris trails his hand down, slides his fingers over the cloth of Cullen's shirt until the tips are pressed against his breast, where his heart beats fast. "Should I be proven wrong, then I can always tear out your heart."

To activate his markings hurts, of course, but it is a familiar hurt, like the controlled cut of a knife. He pulls on them, and makes his hand insubstantial. He does not press it _in_ however, simply allows Cullen to see it, and when all Cullen does is stiffen and breathe in Fenris lets it go. And then he raises that hand to Cullen's jaw.

"I am not afraid of you," Fenris tells him. "Are you afraid of me?"

He smiles, just a little in the corner of his mouth, just a quirk. Easily missed. "No. Perhaps I should be."

"Perhaps," Fenris agrees, and leans down to kiss him.

The Knight-Commander tastes of wine and savoury herbs, and he comes open for Fenris at once, letting him in easily, as if he has been waiting for this. The scratch of his beard is a hard shock at first -- Fenris remembers another beard, and with it terrible things -- but it fades, and he is here, and Cullen is not Danarius, and Fenris is not his slave.

Cullen's hands settle tentative on Fenris' thighs, sliding up to his hips, and Fenris leans into him, both hands framing Cullen's face and holding him in place to be kissed. Cullen allows it. There is a heady glee in this, to have the Knight-Commander of the Gallows in his grip, to take of his mouth as Fenris pleases, to have him pliant and willing.

It is like kissing Carver. Fenris realises it and on the heels of that realises that this is because he has _learned it from Carver_. Carver is his template, his example, and Fenris draws back to stare at him because he had known Cullen was inexperienced but _this_ \--

He is nervous. "Serrah?"

How to ask such a question. "Before Carver. You had lovers."

The colour rises in his face. "You know, serrah, that is not so."

"But you had exchanged kisses before."

The twist of Cullen's mouth is answer enough. "There are kisses and there are _kisses_. Before Carver ... no. Only him. And now you."

No wonder he seeks instruction, if they are between them the whole of his experience in this. And, oh, that he has been kept wanting, too uncertain to ask, without even the words for what it is he wants. Fenris thumbs Cullen's lip, and Cullen opens his mouth to let Fenris press down on his tongue.

"Then, let me teach you _other_ kisses." 

He scrapes the pad of his thumb along Cullen's teeth and watches his eyes blow wide at the burst of lyrium in his mouth. It is not much lyrium, more the taste of it than the substance, but Fenris knows how it drives Carver wild to get his teeth into it, and how he hates to admit it aloud. But Cullen is not ashamed of this, or is perhaps too far gone in his addiction to bring himself to think on it too deeply. In any case, he closes his mouth on Fenris' thumb and sucks hungrily, and Fenris cannot help the double thrill: here is the Knight-Commander of the Gallows, lapping helplessly at his fingers; here is a lyrium-crazed Templar, tasting of his flesh.

Here is his lover's lover. His, now, for the having.

_Take care of him._

Fenris takes back his hand. All Cullen does is sigh, very softly. Good. Fenris shucks his tunic, tossing it to the floor, and catches Cullen's mouth with another kiss. He cannot taste the lyrium on Cullen's lip, too soaked in it as he is, but when Cullen kisses his way down Fenris' throat Fenris knows he is chasing the lines of his lyrium. The pressure of his mouth burns, an ache that goes to the bone. It is not exactly pleasant but it is bearable. And Cullen is bold now where he was tentative before, dragged on by the song of lyrium carved into Fenris' flesh.

It is too much. "Enough," Fenris says, overwhelmed, and Cullen ceases at once.

"Serrah?" His voice is thick and his expression guilty, as though he fears he has overstepped.

"It is fine." It is not fine, but once Fenris calms himself it will be. "Simply, I cannot bear too much on the markings. They ache. And they ... remind me of times when I could not say 'enough'."

If Cullen does not understand he does not show it. "Then please. Show me how I may."

Fenris does, putting Cullen's hands between the markings, pulling across and not along. It is difficult to avoid them. They are extensive, spanning him in lines of ownership. Though Danarius is dead Fenris will never be free of him. Now, though, with a broad human hand spanning his hips and pressing firmly into the places Danarius left intact, he feels untethered. Wild. As close to free as he will ever be.

Cullen kisses the spaces between, and Fenris allows him small tastes of lyrium as a reward. He takes to this game readily, tongue flickering across a nipple, teeth teasing the pebbled flesh of it. He sucks new marks into Fenris' skin, dark beside the white lines, and Fenris imagines showing them to Carver, imagines Carver's wonderful envy. Imagines Carver begging the Knight-Commander, his Captain, for marks of his own.

When Cullen reaches Fenris' hip he looks up. He knows where they are going but does not know how to get there. "Must I kneel?" he asks, and it is evident how he does not want to.

"No. Let me," Fenris leans back on his palms, exposing the length of himself. He knows how he looks, knows how the lyrium gleams in the lamplight. Knows too that Cullen can see his thickening interest through the cloth of his leggings. Knows Cullen needs encouragement. "You may take them off, if you wish it."

Cullen takes a deep breath, and puts his hands to the laces. Fenris lifts his hips to help, and then Cullen pulls all of it down, leggings and smalls, and Fenris is naked on the table, laid out like a delicacy to be devoured.

Cullen looks on him not like the starving man he was when first he came to them, but like a man who knows the pleasures of a well-stocked table and has simply never tried this particular dish. Though he has salivated over it. And now-- "I am at your mercy, Knight-Commander. If you still want."

"Just like that?" Cullen cannot seem to look away from the curve of Fenris' prick, lying dark and firm against his belly. "Will you not tell me how?"

"Put your mouth to it. Do as Carver does, when he pleasures you there."

Cullen may vacillate at times, but he is a man given to decisiveness when his mind is made up. Now he braces his hands against the edge of the table, and ducks his head to press a kiss to Fenris' cock, light as a feather. And then he inhales deeply, as Carver does, and the erotic thrill of seeing him do _that_ sends a spasm through the muscles of Fenris' belly.

And Cullen begins. It is simple things at first, the press of his mouth, and then his tongue flickering over sensitive skin. He laps at Fenris, from root to tip and down again, and spends some time licking over Fenris' balls, something Carver does when he's feeling slow and gluttonous. It is like having Carver new again, with grand ideas and no practical experience, but when Fenris looks down the head of hair in his lap is golden, and perfectly waxed in place.

That will not do. Fenris runs his fingers through it, marvelling at the stiffness of it. Carver's is thick but straight and sleek. Cullen's is wiry, and Fenris wonders if it would curl if left to its own devices. He wants to grip it, to tug it hard, but Cullen is not Carver and Fenris will _take care of him_ in this.

In any case, this is when Cullen takes him into his mouth, glancing up for reassurance. Fenris offers him a smile.

"Good. That is good. Keep going."

If he does not like it then Cullen fakes it well, and he follows instructions easily-- "Less teeth," and, "Gently first," and "Yes, like that," and, "No, here, ah!" Fenris instructs him in how to wrap a hand around the base, how to nibble and lip at the head, how to suck hard and then soft and then hard, and the beginnings of how to take the whole of the thing to the back of the throat, only because he seems to want to try (it is, after all, a favourite trick of Carver's) and will choke himself without guidance.

Fenris works hard not to jerk up into his throat, but it is such an effort. They have gone beyond a lesson here, and Fenris cannot fight the throb of his blood, running hot and heavy with every pass of Cullen's lips over him. He leans back, breath gone ragged, the words stripped from his tongue by _Cullen's_ tongue, and he caresses Cullen's scalp and hopes he knows what it means.

Still, with the tide rising in him he _must_ speak, so he forces himself to say, "I need not spend in your mouth. But," and he means to say, _There is lyrium in it and you may have it, if you wish,_ but Cullen makes a guttural noise, eyes cutting up dark and intent, and then he slides _down_ , and all Fenris' resolve is gone. He cannot help it. Cullen's mouth is on him and it is all he wants.

So he takes it, jerking into Cullen's mouth as the dishes on the table rattle, and he spills over in deep body-wracking throbs that leave him weak and useless after.

Cullen makes a strange sound, and then he comes up to find Fenris' mouth and kiss him. He is a little bitter, but it is only fair, so Fenris kisses him back as best he can while the world resolves back into being around him. 

"I meant to say," Fenris tells him when he has breath enough and the use of his mouth returned to him, "that there is lyrium in my spend. Should you wish it."

"As I have discovered." Cullen licks the corner of his mouth, and his pupils have gone huge and dark. "An unexpected treat."

The guffaw bubbles up out of Fenris' throat, and he strokes Cullen's hair. "Yes. I suppose." He shifts, uncomfortable against the wood. He is naked but Cullen is still fully clothed and suddenly this is a great injustice. And, with Cullen bent over him like this he can feel Cullen hard up against him. "Shall I take care of you then, Knight-Commander?" He means to invite Cullen to bed with this, but Cullen shakes his head.

"If you please, I do not ... I wish ..."

"Tell me." 

Fenris has a surge of post-coital affection for him. To want and to be unable to ask, to have no-one _to_ ask, and no idea what to ask for, in any case. He could have gone to a brothel all these years but he did not, resigned himself to his loneliness instead. And now. _He is ours. We will take care of him. And he of us, I am sure of it._

"Go on," he says. "You may ask of me anything, and I will not make mock of you for it. Now or ever."

Cullen's eyes flutter shut a moment, but when they open again he seems determined. "If I may, I would take you to my thighs."

Is this how it is when Fenris says it so? Does it give Carver the same delicious thrill, excitement bursting along his spine? Does it shudder in Cullen's skin the same, as though he might shake himself out of it? "I will need some time to recover, you understand," Fenris says, breathless. "And the table is uncomfortable."

Cullen lets him up at once, stepping back to give him room. "I believe it will be worth waiting for, serrah." He offers Fenris his hand. "To bed, then?"

He sounds so hopeful, but he is nervous. It is delightful.

In the bedroom Fenris unveils him, piece by piece. He is so tall, so broad-shouldered, thick with muscle and gilded with red-gold hair, a shimmering pelt of it from chest to belly, veiling the strength of his thighs. Fenris has seen him so before, has touched him before, but this time it feels new. For him alone. All of this, for him. It is a gift. Fenris will not spurn it.

"Lie down," Fenris says, and Cullen does so, stretches out golden on the bed. He does not seem to know what to do with his hands. He is awkward of his nakedness, it is obvious, and Fenris bids him to roll over.

This he does too, his cheek turned against the pillow, arms crooked about his head. He watches over his shoulder as Fenris finds the phial of oil kept for this purpose. Fenris sees the moment he realises it is not the slick they use for lovemaking but the other, and notes his frown.

"Do you object? Usually you enjoy this."

He sighs, relaxing ever so slightly. "No, of course. It is very welcome. It is simply unexpected."

"As though we have not done this before." Fenris climbs up to kneel by his side, slicking his hands and warming the oil in his palms. Then he sets to, rubbing along the muscles either side of Cullen's spine. The oil is sweet-scented, redolent with spices. It is good for the skin, and Cullen shines with it as Fenris layers it upon him. Every muscle of his back glistens with it, inviting, and Fenris thinks, _That I should have this. Who could have imagined?_

Cullen groans and sighs with the press of Fenris' hands, twitching when they hurt him. Fenris knows where to press, so he presses, and is rewarded with the steady relaxation of Cullen's limbs as he goes slowly to soft putty. He takes his time about it, oiling Cullen's shoulders, his arms all the way to his broad hands, and then down the stretch of Cullen's back, fitting his hands about the girdle of his waist. He kneads the flesh of Cullen's backside -- beautifully round, wonderfully taut -- and then down his thighs, his calves, to press and knead at his feet. Carver is always ticklish about this but Cullen takes it well, does not flinch or kick, simply sighs his pleasure.

And then. Fenris works his way back up to Cullen's buttocks, stroking and squeezing them, and he kneels now between Cullen's thighs, easing him open bit by bit until Cullen is exposed, has exposed _himself_ , though perhaps he does not know it.

Fenris takes up the oil and pours a pool of it into his palm. Then he tips his hand so the oil runs down his fingers to drip in the cleft of Cullen's arse. It slithers over his nether entrance, and Fenris sees him shudder at the sensation.

"Are you well?"

"Very well," Cullen says, muffled by the pillow. "And you?"

"Completely."

Fenris drips the oil directly on him then, watching him clench against it. Cullen breathes in, and then out, and forces himself to relax. Fenris brushes him with a fingertip and listens to the small sound he makes.

"Well?"

"Yes."

It is breathy, and Fenris can hear the tension in it, overlaid by his want. He has wanted this, perhaps lay awake last night thinking of it. (And if it is Carver that he wants, then Fenris will gladly school him in it, that he will be _good_ for Carver.)

So he circles round, pressing gently, teasing Cullen's flesh and watching him twitch against it.

"Did you enjoy what we did before? Earlier, with your mouth on me."

Cullen's breath is shallow and quick and he resettles himself restlessly. "Yes. I ... thankyou."

"And do you feel meet for the task of doing the same with Carver?"

"Adequate enough. Did I ... of course it was _successful_."

He wants to know if he performed well. Fenris cannot help smiling over it, and he pushes his fingertip inside. "Very well for a beginner. As well as Carver, when first I taught it to him."

It earns him a sharp intake of breath and then a shuddering exhale. Fenris teases him, drawing this out because this is the first time. Cullen deserves gentleness. Perhaps then he will be inclined toward more, next time. And Fenris already knows what he wants for Cullen next time.

He pushes in, sliding deep, and listens to Cullen's breathing shift. When he is ready Fenris adds a second, and goes searching. Somewhere, somewhere--

"Ah!" Cullen bucks against the bed.

 _There_. So satisfying to find him, and tease him, watching him writhe and try not to writhe. He makes small sounds, clutching the pillow into mounds with his hands, tries to smother himself in it. Fenris allows himself the pleasure of working him into such a frenzy as he will allow. 

And, when Cullen gasps out, "How long do you mean to torture me?" Fenris takes pity on him.

He is warm and welcoming, his flesh ready for it, eager for it, even as he whines in his throat. Fenris kisses him between his broad shoulders, sinking into him in slow increments, watching the sweat pop out on his skin. He goes slow, thighs against Cullen's thighs, and Cullen makes way for him, holding himself as still as he can for as long as he can.

"Good?" Fenris asks.

Cullen rolls his head against the pillow. "Tolerable," he says, which means it is almost intolerable, so Fenris slows further, brushing Cullen's skin with his fingers, kissing him softly wherever he can reach. He changes tack, tries another angle, and another, until Cullen gasps and jerks back up against him.

"There?" Fenris asks, and is answered with a sob. But it is the good kind, no pain, no fear, just the sound of a man overwhelmed and Fenris is glad of it.

And glad of Cullen, the clench of his flesh, the softness of his sighs, the way he rocks back into Fenris' lap, making moan so completely Fenris can feel it reverberate through his whole body. This, he has _this_ and he can _give_ this, and Cullen is open for him, grateful for him, neither demanding nor reluctant, simply allowing this thing Fenris may have of him.

It cannot last forever. Fenris accepts the inevitability of that, and pulls Cullen's hips up, urging him to his knees. He has Cullen brace himself against the bedhead, takes him in long slow thrusts, marvels in the half-voiced prayers that spill from his lips. _Maker, oh Maker, please, hear my cry, Maker, my Maker, mercy, please, have mercy..._

He comes to a precipice, tumbling over it in gasps and sobs and the contractions of his flesh, and Fenris stays with him, on the edge through all of it, holding back because there is one last thing to give him.

Fenris leans forward to press the fingers of his off-hand against Cullen's lips, and Cullen opens for him, catching them in his teeth.

Then Fenris lets go, lets his release wash over him, and it is so _good_ , and Cullen's teeth on his flesh are blunt and needy, his tongue against Fenris' fingers as the lyrium pulses through him in stutters and bursts. It is ... unbelievable.

And then it is over. Fenris lays down on him, pressing his mouth to Cullen's sweat-slicked skin, tasting his salt. Eventually he removes himself, though it takes an effort to go to the washstand and clean up, bringing Cullen a cloth for himself.

Cullen is quiet, and Fenris mislikes it until the moment Cullen looks at him with such painful gratitude it takes Fenris' fears and blows them into the wind.

"Cullen," he says, and then, "Knight-Commander," because there is still, after all of it, this distance between them. "Are you well?"

"I am." He says it simply, but the weight of relief that goes with it is intense enough that Fenris must squeeze his eyes shut. 

_I have taken care of him for you,_ he thinks, and, because he must be honest, _for both of us._

Fenris opens his eyes at the brush of a hand on his arm. He looks up. Cullen has concern writ large on his face, and Fenris does not want it of him, has no need of it. "Are _you_ well, serrah?"

"Yes," Fenris says, and he goes to him. After all of this, Cullen's kisses should have lost their savour, but they are still delicious, still exciting. Comforting, too, and Fenris gives himself up to them, just for a little while.

Later, under the warmth of blankets, with Cullen spanning the length of his spine, mouth wet on his neck, Fenris stirs himself to say, "When Carver comes home, we should greet him."

"Of course." A pause. "How do you mean?"

"We should show him what you have learned. If indeed it is something you wish to share with him."

Cullen is silent. Fenris refuses to worry about it. Then-- "I should like to, very much."

" _I_ should like to have you between us." Fenris twists, turning his mouth up to Cullen's mouth. More importantly, Cullen lets him, kisses coming easy now that they are easy together. 

Cullen smiles, teasing his fingers through Fenris' hair. "And how would that work?"

"Carver has enjoyed the bounty of your cock," Fenris says, watching Cullen's eyes for the twitch that will -- there! He is always so easily appalled by frank language. Fenris finds it amusing. "I have not yet enjoyed you so."

"If it pleases you, then it is yours." Cullen hesitates, but. "And Carver?"

"Has not had the pleasure of taking you."

This time it is his mouth that twitches. "Who will go first?"

"Can we not have you together at once?"

That mouth falls open, just for a moment, and then he reels Fenris in to be kissed. "As you wish, if indeed such a thing is possible."

"All things are possible. This particularly so."

Cullen smiles, laying down his head and closing his eyes. "As you say, serrah."

It is good. It _will_ be good.

When Cullen sleeps, Fenris watches him, until the candles gutter and die, and even when his eyes close he thinks he sees Cullen in the dark behind his eyelids.

He is not afraid of Cullen. No. Whatever this is, it is something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course there is a second part to this. After all, Carver has to come home, sometime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Carver comes home, he finds things have changed.
> 
> He really can't complain about any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to be Carver POV. None of it was supposed to be Carver POV, but then I thought-- hey, that would be pretty fucking neat.
> 
> So here we are.

It's been a long day, and Carver groans with relief as he shucks his armour in the bathing rooms. The trek up Sundermount with a gaggle of Templar Hunters who were shit at walking and awesome at bitching was bad enough, but taking in the apostates and camping overnight amongst the ghosts of the Dalish camp was fucking awful. Then he'd brought them all down again, and they'd gone for two apostates but found _five_ , and he'd got three of them down the mountain safe and sound, which is terrible odds, really. Still. Went for two, came back with three, could have been worse. Only minor injuries amongst the knights and both Keili and Selwyn are hale as hale, now Keili's got good shoes and Selwyn actually listens to him, sometimes.

So a long day, but a successful one. Three new mages safe in the Gallows -- and they'd been glad enough to come with him once he'd promised as much as he could promise. The other two ... he tries not to dwell on the other two, but they're two marks against him. One dead, one fled. More important to safeguard the three than go after the one. Better to take apostates when they're halfway willing, after all. He doesn't like taking them the other way.

Now the apostates are safe, his knights are safe, and his _mages_ are safe, and Carver has time for a bath before he goes up. He takes his time, washing himself all over to get the stink of long-gone Dalish ghosts out of his skin.

It's after the dinner hour, so one of the Tranquil brings him a bowl of fishy stew that he wolfs down while sitting in the tub. He'll have to scour his teeth if he wants Fenris to kiss him. He does that, chewing mint leaves while he dresses in a clean shirt and trousers. He sends his armour to be cleaned. He'd do it himself but he's so fucking exhausted and, anyway, that's the perks of being an officer, right? Maybe he's earned a little laziness for himself.

He makes his way upstairs, yawning hard enough to crack his jaw. He'd sent word ahead of them, so they'd be ready to absorb the apostates and do what little healing was needed for his knights, and he's expecting Cullen and Fenris to be waiting for him.

When they aren't, he feels a bit ... well, he doesn't feel bad, really. Just disappointed. He'd thought they'd wait up for him, but instead he finds the sitting room empty, coals in the fire banked, and no sign of either of them.

Cullen he can understand, and now he feels remiss in not going first to his Captain -- his _Commander_ \-- to report. It's late, though, and even if Cullen is still in his office then Fenris should be here, inhaling wine and frowning over one of his books. Maybe he's in the city, drinking with Varric. But Isabela's sailed off into the sunset again and Carver hadn't thought Fenris would go down just to see Varric. He might be wrong about that, though. Right now it seems likely. Wouldn't be the first time he's pegged Fenris wrong, after all.

And then he sees it. The glow of candlelight, soft and inviting, spilling out from around the edge of Cullen's door. The door to his bedroom, which Carver and Fenris have invaded so thoroughly these last weeks. 

_Someone_ is in there. Carver has no idea who, but he goes up, and pushes the door inward, curious as to what he might find.

What he finds is ... 

_Maker_. They're on the bed. They're _naked_. Cullen is between Fenris' thighs, kissing him as though he means to devour him and Fenris is beneath him, arms caught fast about Cullen's neck and kissing back as though he means to be devoured. Carver feels as though his brain has stopped working, like he can't quite understand what he's seeing.

Fuck, they're _beautiful_.

He should feel jealous, shouldn't he? That's his lover -- that's _both_ of his lovers, together, without him, clearly enjoying one another in a way that ... no, he's wanted this. He's wanted to see it and be part of it, has hoped for it, and he isn't jealous. How could he be when they look like _that_?

No, what he feels isn't jealousy, not a bit. Just hard as fuck, with something wonderful unfurling in his belly at the sight of them.

Fenris glances up over Cullen's shoulder, and his smirk says it all. "There you are. We have been waiting on you."

And Cullen twists to see him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. " _Carver_." He rises up on his knees, one hand on Fenris' thigh and the other reaching out. "Welcome home, my knight."

Fuck. Fuck, they fucking-- "Did you plan this?" He has to ask, because it looks so--

Fenris laughs, low and rough. "He thinks he is the centre of our world."

And Cullen smiles, his hand stroking over Fenris' hip even as he crooks his fingers. "Is he not?" He licks his lips, and gestures imperiously. "Come here and be kissed."

Carver can do nothing else. He goes up to the edge of the bed and Cullen curls a hand in his shirt to tug him in, and he is kissed by his Captain, and Cullen tastes of _lyrium_ but also of _Fenris_ , and Carver knows what they've been doing.

Holy shit, Cullen has had Fenris in his mouth. Has had him there _tonight_ , has already sucked on him until Fenris was done, and Fenris _allowed_ him to, when he so rarely allows Carver to swallow him.

Again, he should be jealous, and he isn't, he can't be, he just _wants_ so fucking much.

"You've been fucking," he says, when Cullen lets him go. He doesn't mean it to sound accusatory, so he kisses Cullen again, tasting Fenris all over his tongue. "Haven't you?"

"We have been waiting," Fenris says, scratching his nails down Carver's arm. He looks pleased and sly, and Carver doesn't know what to do with it when Cullen is between his thighs like that. "We grew tired of it, but we are still waiting for you."

Cullen smooths a hand over Carver's chest, picking up folds of cloth as he goes. "You are too clothed, my knight. Divest yourself at once, if you please."

Maker, it's like there's _two_ of them, ordering him about, and Carver cannot pretend he doesn't think it's the best thing in the world. So he does as he's told, peeling out of his clothes and hovering by the side of the bed, hoping one of them will tell him where he fits into whatever they have planned.

Because it's obvious they have a plan, and knowing that is heady and wonderful. They've been plotting. They've been plotting _sex_ things, and Carver is oh so willing to be a piece in whatever game they're playing.

Fenris hisses, arching his back. Carver realises that Cullen has a hand on him, is pulling him in long slow strokes, and there is a tiny part of Carver that wants to show him the best way to do it, to make Fenris growl and claw at him, but ... but Cullen seems to _know_ already, and Carver breathes out hard. Cullen knows. They've been _doing_ this. Have they been at it all evening? And last night, too? Fuck, he can't, he just _can't_ , he's so hard just thinking about it.

"Please," he begs, and he drops to his knees though the flagstones are hard on him. He just wants, so badly. "Please, ser, tell me what to do."

Cullen looks at him. How dark his eyes are, how lovely he is like this, with the flush of blood under his skin and sweat beading on his shoulders. How the cords of his muscles tense and tease and Carver wants to put his tongue on them so badly he feels like he's shaking.

And then Cullen reaches between Fenris' thighs to press his fingers to him. Holy ... Holy Maker, his _fingers_ , and he's pushing them in as if he's done this before, as if they've been at it _all evening_ , and Fenris sighs and arches up for them, as if he's missed them in his flesh.

" _Carver_." Cullen's voice wavers a little and Fenris leans up to kiss Cullen's cheek, and whisper something in his ear. "You must come up behind me."

Carver scrambles to do as he's told, and Cullen parts his thighs, showing himself, and Carver ... fuck, he's so hard he doesn't know if he can do this justice, if Cullen is really asking for what it sounds like.

"Carver." This time it's Fenris, pulling himself up to make eye contact over Cullen's shoulder. (Maker, how broad his shoulders, how gloriously golden, Carver can't, he can't, but he must, he wants to.) "Put your mouth to him."

He's open and glistening, and Carver thinks, _Yes,_ and Carver bends down to kiss his Captain in the most intimate way he knows how.

Cullen stiffens, but Carver can hear Fenris shushing him, and on his lips he can taste the spice of oil. They've been _playing_ here, slicking Cullen up and -- oh Maker, he can't imagine it too hard or he'll burst. Fenris' fingers in Cullen, maybe his cock, too. Cullen is wet and Carver licks him, and he doesn't taste of lyrium so maybe Fenris hasn't spilled in him tonight. Not tonight. But last night?

He presses his tongue in and Cullen comes open for him, and Carver hears him groan. "No, no, no..."

Carver stops at once, though he _wants_. "No, ser?"

Fenris is whispering something, and Cullen shudders all over, but then-- "Yes. Yes, you may."

Carver does. He tastes of spices and oil, and a deep musk, but not of lyrium, and Carver thinks he wouldn't mind it, licking lyrium from Cullen like this. Knowing where that lyrium had come from. Knowing what they'd been up to. He puts his tongue to it, delving as deep as he can, and Cullen makes a high pitched noise, rocking back against his mouth, and it's so good, Maker, how can it be so good?

Because he loves them. And Cullen doesn't _mind_ , and Fenris is eager for it, growling and cursing beneath them.

But then-- "Knight Commander," Fenris says, hooking his ankles around Cullen's hips. He nearly kicks Carver in the face, and it's almost funny but Carver doesn't laugh, just kneels up behind Cullen, pressing himself into his Captain's thigh.

His Captain, his Commander -- always his Captain, _his_ , and he won't share with anyone except Fenris. Like he won't share Fenris with anyone but Cullen.

Fenris is whispering something, and Carver sees him reach for the almost-depleted flask of oil. It disappears for a moment -- Cullen is slicking his hand -- and then Fenris passes it back to Carver.

"Now?" Carver asks, pooling the last of it in his palm and knowing what Fenris wants but needing to know if Cullen wants it too.

He sees the way Cullen shifts, the way Fenris rocks up to him, and he knows. Fuck, he knows.

" _Now_ ," Cullen says, so Carver slicks himself and presses _in_.

Maybe he should have used his fingers first. Maybe, but at the first press Cullen groans, low and wonderful, and then he gives way, and Carver plunges himself deep. 

Oh. Oh, oh, oh ... _oh_.

It's a mess at first, Cullen and Carver at odds, but Fenris grabs Cullen by the hips and pulls him up where he's wanted, and Carver finds his stride, though Fenris kicks him hard in the hip and then--

They fall into it, a deep, rocking rhythm, and it's like ... it's like ... it's like _nothing else_ , like he's fucking Fenris _through Cullen_ , and Cullen's hips roll beneath him, and Carver feels like he's trying to keep his feet on a boat at sea.

"Be strong," Fenris gasps, "be steadfast, Knight Commander," and, "Ah! Be stalwart," and Cullen moans, pressing his face to Fenris' shoulder and kissing him. Carver hangs on, tries not to finish before them, but it's so hard when he's _so hard_ and both of them gasp and grunt beneath him like beasts.

"Fenris," Cullen groans, deep in his chest, and it sends another hot jolt up Carver's spine, " _Fenris_ , I cannot--"

"You can, you can," and Fenris jerks under them, all of him lighting up like fireworks as he lets himself go, the lyrium running over him all blue-white and beautiful. It's too much, Carver wants to follow him down, wants to wallow in the wash of his lyrium, but Cullen is still -- no, Cullen is _breaking_ , shuddering like an earthquake, and Carver thinks, _Fuck it_ and goes with him, jerking into him as he quakes, as they both do, as he's pulled finally, wonderfully under. Maker, it goes forever, and Carver moans things aloud he's been trying to keep quiet for so long.

Cullen slumps onto his elbows, but Carver can't hold himself up and just collapses on top of him, gasping for breath. The only reason they don't crush Fenris under them is because Cullen refuses to, kissing up over Fenris's throat to his mouth and then just kissing him, again and again.

Now Carver feels it, just a twinge of jealousy. But he pulls out slowly and, because he's been the one on top, he staggers off to find things for washing up.

He slops water over both of them when he collapses back on the bed. "Sorry! I'm just ... fffuck." 

Neither of them seem to mind. Cullen rolls onto his back and groans, eyes wrenched shut, and then he reaches for Carver to pull him down. More water slops over them and Fenris curses but Carver can't think, not when Cullen kisses him like he's been starving for it.

Fenris wrenches the water bowl out of his hands and sets it aside, only to grab him by the face and tug him up. More kissing, and everything is wet and slippery, and he's made such a mess of them both but they _don't seem to care_.

Cullen sighs, finding the cloth and swiping it over Fenris' skin. Fenris hums and allows it, and Carver thinks, _He's not even mad. Why isn't he mad?_ But then Cullen is cleaning _him_ and he thinks, _Probably because it feels good._ The water's not too cold. A bit cold, but not icy.

And then he takes the cloth from Cullen and wipes him down, front and back, and Cullen protests a little, but he's so lethargic it's like being cussed out by someone half asleep.

"We should spend the night in the other room," Fenris says, plucking up a wet and dirty sheet to wrinkle his nose at it. "Do you not agree?"

"As you say, serrah," Cullen says, but he tries to sit up and it's clearly too much for him.

Carver can't seem to stop grinning. "Definitely should. Come on, you two." He stands up, shaky on his pins, and overestimates himself when he tries to get Cullen up with him. They nearly go down, but then Fenris is sighing and making such a fuss over standing up that Carver tries to hoist him off the bed.

That's a terrible idea, and Fenris bites him hard enough he lets Fenris down to the ground.

"I can _walk_ ," Fenris says, haughty as a fucking Viscount. "Give me a moment."

It's ludicrous. Carver can't stop snickering. "Come on, then, Ser I-Can-Walk." He dries himself off on a bit of sheet, and then staggers over to the door. 

Cullen is still standing by the bed, looking pained.

"What's wrong, ser?"

"Isaak will find this, come morning." He straightens his shoulders and gives Carver a sheepish look. "I do not know how to explain it."

"Then don't. He already knows. If you want," he adds, feeling cheeky, "then tell him we'll deal with it ourselves. But he'll still know."

Cullen makes such a face, and Carver can't stop himself from laughing out loud.

"Do not tease him," Fenris growls, now steady enough to stalk out of the door into the main chamber. "Come to _bed_."

Cullen gestures for Carver to precede him, and Carver does, though he can't stop his wild grin.

"So, _were_ you fucking all evening? Before I got there, I mean," he asks, once he's snuggled down in the bed between them. Cullen hums and Fenris chuckles deep in his throat. It's not an answer, but Carver doesn't care. Cullen has curled around his shoulder and Fenris is sprawled across his chest, the two of them bracketing him in. It's such a good thing to come home to, a good fuck and a (dry) warm bed to sleep in. 

And these two, touching him, kissing the skin of his neck and his chest and--

"Welcome home," Cullen murmurs into his hair, hands on him as though he'll never let go.

"Yes." Fenris snuggles down under the sheet until he's just green eyes blinking sleepily upward. "Welcome home."


End file.
